第6节

Officer as 'high plains country'. Over his right shoulder, beyond the

ramp, Brickman could see the towering summit of the Sierra Blanca, part

of the mountain range barring the way to the east. Ahead, lay the San

Andreas range which he would cross between Black Top and Saunas Peak.

From here, his course lay in a straight line over the Jornada del

Muerto to the northern end of a large overground reservoir that formed

part of a giant river cutting deep into the bedrock of the land as it

snaked its way south.

The Rio Grande.

Despite all he had been told, Brickman found it hard to accept that

the overground could be as deadly as it was beautiful. Yet he could

not deny the first-hand evidence provided by his guard-father who, as a

wingman, had put in a double-six up the line and was now a shrunken

shadow in a wheelchair; his body ravaged by the all-consuming sickness

that lay in wait for all those who survived the allotted number of

overground tours of duty.

The sky above, the land below, the crisp fresh air that now filled his

lungs, was charged with lethal radiation that, even on this first

sortie, had already begun its silent attack on his own unshielded

body.

Every square inch of ground, every cubic inch of sky harboured the kiss

of death.

It was this ever-present danger, lying across the world like an

invisible funeral shroud, which had caused the subterranean birth of

the Federation; had kept it, for nearly a thousand years, from assuming

its rightful place in the sun. Anti-radiation top-suits did exist but

they were ungainly garments that were scorned by Trail-Blazers who,

like the pre-Holocaust American Green Berets and British Paras,

regarded themselves as lite shock-troops; the cream of Amtrak. The

standard-issue closed helmet with its air filtration system and 'flak'

jacket were considered an acceptable form of protection; anti-radiation

top-suits did not even form part of a wagon train's inventory. The

refusal to wear them was viewed by Grand Central not as a breach of

discipline, but as proof of the Blazer's readiness to die for the

Federation.

The cross-country course Brickman had been given to fly was in the

shape of a roughly equilateral triangle, and covered a total distance

of two hundred and twenty-five miles. The first seventy-five mile leg

was angled northwest to the head of the Elephant Butte Reservoir; the

second almost due south, running parallel to the Rio Grande and

crossing it at another prehistoric ruin bearing the name of Hatch to

reach the peak of the Sierra de Las Uvas. The return leg ran E.N.E,

skirting the eight thousand foot peak that marked the high point of the

San Andreas mountains, then across the dazzling, desolate expanse of

White Sands and back to the ramp.

Aware that the Adjudicators might possess the means to monitor his

flight pattern, Brickman flew a perfect course at he required cruising

altitude of eight thousand feet, at a ground speed of seventy-five

miles an hour. He searched the sky around him but could see no sign of

any other craft.

Once clear of the mountains, he began losing altitude for his final

approach. Ahead of him, he could see the thousand foot high,

pencil-slim red, white and blue striped beacon balanced on its point as

if by magic. Below him, the white sand, wind-shaped into curving

lines, stretched away on all sides like a vast frozen sea.

The sea ...

Brickman had heard about it, but had never seen pictures of it. He

only knew that it lay beyond the southern horizon.

He fought down a mad impulse to break away in search of it and

continued his slow descent towards the SouthWest ramp. When he was

some two miles from touchdown, he saw a tiny, triangular speck of blue

rise from the takeoff ramp, becoming a flash of silver as it banked

round and caught the sun. High in the sky to the south-east hung

another micro-dot. Someone else on their way back in.

Brickman throttled right back and drifted down through the warm air

with the tranquil ease of a seabird, putting all three wheels on

the'ramp three hours after takeoff; matching - to the second - the

estimated time he had filed with Overground Flight Control.

A final, flawless performance.

As he taxied down the ramp, the converging walls